Post by Robin on Mar 10, 2006 19:37:35 GMT -8
This stemmed from the lines "Shrinking years//Thinking years" and "Driving years//Striving years." I originally wrote it as this poem, then changed it to prose, and then decided that the poem was better. The prose version is basically the same, but not in line form. I couldn't decide which flowed better, so I chose this one to post.
--------
Time sprints by so quickly in those LeapFrog, PlaySkool years.
Which is funny, because you’re so slow.
Stumbling through the terrible twos,
Lost in a maze as intricate as your parents’.
Who makes maps of the beginning years?
Toddling years, coddling years.
They’re marked with grainy photos,
With scarred knees and dozens upon dozens of aphorisms.
Hundreds of don’t turn mommy’s nice shirt green, sweeties,
And millions of don’t play with daddy’s cassette tapes, honeys,
And thousands of others we don’t care to remember.
But do you care to remember the others?
Billions of kisses that make booboos feel better,
Trillions of wrestling matches that you always won.
Where did that wrestling talent go?
It went with your toddling years.
It fled with the coddling years.
Kids don’t need advice from smelly adults.
We ride the wind like Stuttering Bill.
HI-YO SILVER! AWAYYYYYYYY!
Who listens to grown-ups anyways?
All they do is hold you back.
All day long a steady stream of stay safe maxims:
“Look both ways before crossing the street!”
”Don’t accept rides from strangers!”
”You’ll kill yourself on that bike!”
Amnday uoyay, ommay.
Mr. Do is for babies.
Biking years, striking years.
Too bad they don’t last too long.
Those cults built around a deep enmity for parents are pretty nice.
You get attached.
Everyone gets attached.
But it’s one, two, three strikes you’re out,
Out of the biking years.
Out of the striking years.
“STEEE-RIKE three!
Back to the bench!”
Hell no, ump, it was a foul.
Nobody’s going to the bench after the striking years.
It’s just back to the drawing board.
It’s back to planning.
What’s the fad this decade?
Leggings? Mohawks?
Or should we stick with the emo thing?
Hell yeah, we should.
Talking years, gawking years.
We’ll spend ‘em talking about whose scar is the deepest,
About whose pants are the tightest.
The childhood cults remain the same, just expanded.
The president takes the place of mom and pop;
Cars replace the bikes.
It’s hi-yo silver away no longer.
It’s the talking gawking years.
High school trends die and scars usually fade.
Volvos replace beat up old Civics,
Receding hairlines replace the shaggy, longish hair,
The hair halfway down to their assholes.
And anyways, it doesn’t matter what it used to look like;
It’s gone.
Gone in the driving years, the striving years.
Eaten up by commitment and responsibility.
Responsibility.
A word that was new on the tongue, but quickly became familiar,
Fading the word fun into some vague expression,
A term that included white wine and salmon,
And suits starchy as the cheap potatoes congealing on stainless steel platters.
No more gawking: there was nothing to look at.
No more talking: nothing to gab about except taxes and work.
Fun was eaten up in the driving years.
Dissolved in the striving years.
It’s Semisonic all over again.
The toddling and biking and gawking and striving are over with.
The battling, the screaming, the drinking, the sexing.
No more time for that, just to think.
Shrinking years, thinking years.
The days drip by like cold molasses,
Each slower than the last.
And yet they go by quickly.
Holidays seem closer together,
Anniversaries more frequent.
And there’s less time to rock on the porch,
Gathering cobwebs on heads already coated in sparse, cobweb hair.
Time to shrink, time to think.
Time to distance oneself from the body before death.
Welcome death.
--------
Time sprints by so quickly in those LeapFrog, PlaySkool years.
Which is funny, because you’re so slow.
Stumbling through the terrible twos,
Lost in a maze as intricate as your parents’.
Who makes maps of the beginning years?
Toddling years, coddling years.
They’re marked with grainy photos,
With scarred knees and dozens upon dozens of aphorisms.
Hundreds of don’t turn mommy’s nice shirt green, sweeties,
And millions of don’t play with daddy’s cassette tapes, honeys,
And thousands of others we don’t care to remember.
But do you care to remember the others?
Billions of kisses that make booboos feel better,
Trillions of wrestling matches that you always won.
Where did that wrestling talent go?
It went with your toddling years.
It fled with the coddling years.
Kids don’t need advice from smelly adults.
We ride the wind like Stuttering Bill.
HI-YO SILVER! AWAYYYYYYYY!
Who listens to grown-ups anyways?
All they do is hold you back.
All day long a steady stream of stay safe maxims:
“Look both ways before crossing the street!”
”Don’t accept rides from strangers!”
”You’ll kill yourself on that bike!”
Amnday uoyay, ommay.
Mr. Do is for babies.
Biking years, striking years.
Too bad they don’t last too long.
Those cults built around a deep enmity for parents are pretty nice.
You get attached.
Everyone gets attached.
But it’s one, two, three strikes you’re out,
Out of the biking years.
Out of the striking years.
“STEEE-RIKE three!
Back to the bench!”
Hell no, ump, it was a foul.
Nobody’s going to the bench after the striking years.
It’s just back to the drawing board.
It’s back to planning.
What’s the fad this decade?
Leggings? Mohawks?
Or should we stick with the emo thing?
Hell yeah, we should.
Talking years, gawking years.
We’ll spend ‘em talking about whose scar is the deepest,
About whose pants are the tightest.
The childhood cults remain the same, just expanded.
The president takes the place of mom and pop;
Cars replace the bikes.
It’s hi-yo silver away no longer.
It’s the talking gawking years.
High school trends die and scars usually fade.
Volvos replace beat up old Civics,
Receding hairlines replace the shaggy, longish hair,
The hair halfway down to their assholes.
And anyways, it doesn’t matter what it used to look like;
It’s gone.
Gone in the driving years, the striving years.
Eaten up by commitment and responsibility.
Responsibility.
A word that was new on the tongue, but quickly became familiar,
Fading the word fun into some vague expression,
A term that included white wine and salmon,
And suits starchy as the cheap potatoes congealing on stainless steel platters.
No more gawking: there was nothing to look at.
No more talking: nothing to gab about except taxes and work.
Fun was eaten up in the driving years.
Dissolved in the striving years.
It’s Semisonic all over again.
The toddling and biking and gawking and striving are over with.
The battling, the screaming, the drinking, the sexing.
No more time for that, just to think.
Shrinking years, thinking years.
The days drip by like cold molasses,
Each slower than the last.
And yet they go by quickly.
Holidays seem closer together,
Anniversaries more frequent.
And there’s less time to rock on the porch,
Gathering cobwebs on heads already coated in sparse, cobweb hair.
Time to shrink, time to think.
Time to distance oneself from the body before death.
Welcome death.